Jackson Pollock
by Zion Angel
Summary: Tony/Pepper -- He hates the ugly thing, and he would very much like to know who decided that it even qualified as ‘art’ in the first place. But it doesn’t matter. The painting isn’t for him. -- SEQUEL ADDED AS CH. 2
1. Original Story

I had this idea a few days back, and I wrote it in two hours tonight. So for the third night in a row, I'm off to get my 5 lousy hours of sleep, and hope that I can stay awake in class tomorrow.

--

Jackson Pollock

By ZionAngel

--

"What're you trying to hustle me out of here?"

"Your flight was scheduled to leave an hour and a half ago." She has that low-level annoyance in her voice, the kind she only emerges when he doesn't do something he's supposed to. He knows it well.

"That's funny," he replies, beginning his teasing banter, the kind he only uses with her when she is being too serious. "I thought with it being _my_ plane and all, that it would just wait for me to get there."

As usual, she continues as if he has said nothing at all, and to his mind, that's half the fun. "Tony, I need to speak to you about a couple of things before I get you out of here." He knows she's feeling detached and professional from the use of his first name. She doesn't call him that in the moments when they are friends instead of employer and employee - then he's _Mr. Stark_. She's odd that way, like she's trying to maintain some constant balance, not too professional, not too personal.

"I mean," he begins, wiping his hands on a rag and turning to her, "doesn't it sort of defeat the whole purpose of having your own plane if it departs before you arrive?"

She begins her first word before he finishes his last. They mastered that art long ago, and both can speak simultaneously, yet still catalogue and comprehend everything the other is saying in real time. It's their rhythm, and he likes to think she enjoys it the way he does. "Larry called, he has another buyer for the Jackson Pollock in the wings. _Do you want it_, yes or no?"

He hides a smirk from her. He had almost forgotten about that thing. He had seen the photo Larry had sent over only once, and that was all it took to convince him that this Pollock guy was a certifiable quack. It looked like a three-year-old had been let loose in an art studio all day. He has never picked up a brush in his life, and he could still probably create an exact replica of that painting in ten minutes flat. He hates the ugly thing, and he would very much like to know who decided that it even qualified as 'art' in the first place. But it doesn't matter. The painting isn't for him.

"Is it a good representation of his spring period?" He asks, feigning the interest and careful deliberation of a knowledgeable buyer. He is really only looking for a confirmation of her opinion, even though she made it quite clear several weeks ago, when she presented him with the offer to add to his 'collection.' He hadn't even recognized the name when she told him, and she had quickly explained to him, in somewhat offended shock, that Jackson Pollock was only the single greatest expressionist painter in American history (and as far as she was concerned, she had added quickly, one of the most incredible creative minds the world has ever been graced with). So, he had absent-mindedly inquired about the piece for sale, glancing up from his computer in time to see the quiet look of awe in her eyes. _It's amazing_, she had said. _It's beautiful_.

"Um… no," she begins hesitantly, as if he won't understand (which, apparently, he doesn't). "The Springs is actually the neighborhood in East Hampton where he lived and worked -"

"So?" He truly couldn't care less about the painting, except to know if she still loves it as much as did before.

"- not spring like the season." She contemplates his question for a second, and he can see that she is barely able tone down her enthusiasm. "I think it's a fair example. But I think it's incredibly overpriced."

With that, he makes his decision. "I need it." She smiles at him as he stands, and he isn't sure if she's happy at his choice, or if she just thinks that he really is that predictable. "Buy it, store it." And maybe he is that predictable, but in his experience, 'incredibly overpriced' always makes for the best birthday presents.

She forces him to go through some other business, and he replies and banters absently as he imagines the look that will be on her face when she sees it. He has it all planned out - he'll make her go home early the night before her birthday, and have it hung in her office once she's gone. He is considering finding a giant ribbon to tie around one corner, but he still isn't sure if that would be too over-the-top. And then in the morning, he'll be sure to wake up long before she gets there, and come up with some reason why she has to go to her office the moment she arrives, and why he has to follow her. She'll open the door, and walk in, and freeze in her tracks when she sees it. He can picture every detail of her face - her mouth and eyes wide as she stares, and she'll stutter like an idiot, unable to get three coherent words out, and then, finally, she'll smile. He still won't understand what she sees in it, but he won't care because she'll look at him with that smile and those elated eyes, and it will be worth it just for that.

He has always loved to see her smile, genuinely and happily, and he still can't fathom why. He just likes the way it makes him feel deep down, to see her face light up, especially when he has something to do with it. It makes him happy to see her happy.

She's holding a document and pen out to him now, and he catches the words "before you get on the plane." She's always got some strategy to get him moving.

"What're you trying to get rid of me for? What, do you have plans?"

She looks him in the eye and pauses for a half second. "As a matter of fact, I do."

"I don't like it when you have plans," he says, in his best five-year-old style, the one he uses when he is trying to get things his way.

She gives him an exasperated look, and he could swear there is a bit of hurt in those eyes. "I'm allowed to have plans on my birthday."

He stares at her with slightly wide eyes, feeling time and everything else come to a screeching halt. "It's your birthday?"

"Yes."

_Shit_. "I knew that." How the _hell_ did that happen?! "Already?" he asks, panicking, as if she'll tell him that it's just a joke, that it really isn't for another three weeks, like he thought, and that his plans haven't been ruined.

"Yeah, isn't that strange?" She's trying to act casual, like she expected this and doesn't care and just wants to get on with business, but now he can see the hurt clearly, and his heart sinks. "It's the same day as last year…."

"Well," he says, trying to sound detached as well. "Get yourself something nice for me." He knows he isn't what might be called 'responsible,' and is more often referred to as 'forgetful' and 'insensitive,' but he thought the least he could do was keep one little date straight in his head, for something that is important to one of the few people he actually cares about. Apparently not -

"I already did."

He jumps straight past the part where she saw his stupidity coming from a mile away, and right to the part where he has already given her a present (he paid for it, after all, and that makes it his gift), the part that gives him back a little spark of hope. "And?" he grins, hoping he'll still get to see it….

"Oh," she replies, her tone and the look in her eyes picking up, "it was very nice." He can almost see it, creeping out from her eyes, and slightly onto her face. He doesn't breathe as he watches her intently, waiting and hoping. "Very tasteful." _There_ it is - that smile, that mischievous, happy smile that says that, for him, she might be willing to forgive the unforgivable. "Thank you, Mr. Stark." And the formal words prove that she anything but his assistant right now, that she is his friend, and he has made her happy.

He grins back a little, feeling a soothing warmth wash over him. "You're welcome, Miss Potts." He is glad that he got to see that smile after all, even if it didn't go exactly as planned.

He figures he has put her through enough for one day, and signs the document, hands her his tiny espresso cup, and walks straight past the disassembled hotrod and up the stairs to get ready to leave.

_Looks like the over-rated Pollock will just have to wait._


	2. Sequel

So I wrote _Jackson Pollock_ a long time ago, and some people said I should write a sequel. I didn't, because all of the ideas I had were boring or lame. But now I've come up with a little something that I think will do. So enjoy! :)

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Jackson Pollock

The Sequel

By ZionAngel

--

She's wearing a blue pant suit today. It blocks his view of her bare legs, and that's half the fun of her heels, but on the other hand, the pants are tight enough that they show off her ass very nicely. It's a fair trade.

She turns suddenly, document in hand, and his eyes dart back up to her face. But not fast enough, apparently.

Pepper narrows her eyes at him. "You were staring," she accuses.

He grins, only slightly embarrassed, and props his feet up onto the edge of his desk. "Can you really blame me, Pepper?"

"Yeah, actually," she deadpans, striding over and dropping the document on his desk. "I can. Sign."

"Really now, Pep." He leans forward, and signs at the bottom of the page without reading a single word. But he doesn't need to - he knows she would never tell him to do something he shouldn't. "I don't know what the problem is. I'm not staring just because you're a breathing female who happens to be in the room. You really -"

"Tell me I have a nice ass and I'll kick yours."

He shuts his mouth and hands the paper back to her. "I do have urges, you know. In case you haven't noticed, the last time I got laid was your birthday -"

"Stop calling it that," she mutters fiercely, shoving the document in her organizer. She turns back towards the door as if she means to leave, and he suddenly sits up, his joking mood gone.

"Wait, Pepper - what - what did I say?"

She stops, sighing heavily, and turns back only halfway. "You keep referring to it as my birthday." Her eyes become sad, afraid even, and they turn toward the ground. "You don't mean my birthday, you mean the day before you got kidnapped. It's bad enough that my last birthday preceded the worst day of my life, I don't need to be reminded of it constantly." And then she's gone.

He sits staring dumbly at the door, trying to understand what just happened. Pepper almost never reacts to something so strongly, or with so little self-control. He can probably count on one hand the number of times he's seen a reaction like this, and the last one he can remember clearly was when she threatened to quit, the day he fought Stane.

He slumps back in his chair, thinking back to the last few months, things he's said. A lot of things happened on that day - a lot of milestones were reached. The last time he slept with a woman, the last time he _wanted_ to sleep with anyone but Pepper (though of course, she doesn't know that), the last time he was more than twenty minutes late for any reason other than the suit, the last time he had a chance to really work on one of his cars, the last time he complained when she turned down his music or interrupted him. The last day his life was anything resembling normal, the last day _he_ was anything close to normal. And now that he thinks of it, she's right - any time he mentions one of those milestones or something that happened that day, he always says "your birthday." He just figured it was a natural way to put it, to spare both of them some very unpleasant memories. He never considered that it might have the exact opposite effect. And he doesn't want Pepper to think of her birthday with anything but fond memories.

He wants very much to kick himself, but instead picks up his phone, and starts dialing.

--

Two days later, Happy drives them home from a string of meetings at Stark Industries. Once inside, Pepper begins moving toward the kitchen. But Tony stops her, taking her hand firmly in his and wordlessly leading her toward the stairs.

"Tony -" she stammers, walking quickly to keep up. "What are you doing? I was going to get something to drink -" She stops talking as he pulls her along up the stairs.

He still says nothing. She can't see the small, nervous yet peaceful smile on his face.

"Tony," she says again as they approach the door to her office.

Here, he stops, turns, and takes both of her hands in his. He sighs to steel his nerves and slow his racing heart. He doesn't know why he's so nervous right now - he shouldn't be.

"Tony, what's going on?" She tries to pull her hands away, but he squeezes gently, and she relaxes.

"I'm sorry I forgot your birthday, Pepper." She her hands go totally limp in his, and her eyes widen. He studies them for a moment, and that calms him some. "And I'm sorry I've been making you upset about it." He smiles sweetly at her, and rubs his thumbs in little circles on the backs of her hands. "I don't want you to have bad memories about your birthday, especially not because of me."

She's visibly and thoroughly _shocked_, and her mouth moves slightly as she tries to speak. "Tony, that's… it's… it was months ago, it's fine -"

"No, Pepper, it's not fine. You deserve someone who can remember one little date that's important to you." He vaguely realizes that that didn't come out quite right, but he keeps going nonetheless. "I screwed up, and I'm sorry for that. I don't ever want to do something that stupid and insensitive again."

She shakes her head, her cheeks tinged slightly pink. "It's okay, Tony. I understand. You probably wouldn't know your _own_ birth day if I didn't remind you. It doesn't bother me -"

"I don't believe that, Pepper. I've remembered your birthday before, I could have done it this year. I know that must have hurt, Pepper, no matter how much you pretend." His smile widens, and releases one hand to twist the doorknob. "And I want to make that up to you."

He pushes the door open, and leads her into her office. He takes her several feet inside, and turns her by the shoulders to face the wall across from the windows and her desk. She freezes, just like he expected, when she registers what she's seeing.

He moves to stand beside her, following her eyes to the Jackson Pollock painting mounted on her wall. He still hates it, possibly even more up close than he did having only seen the photo Larry sent over all those months ago. But that's why it's in her office and not in the living room.

He studies her face now. Both her eyes and mouth are wide, and she seems unsure if she's dreaming.

"I didn't really forget your birthday, Pepper," he whispers, not wanting to jar her from her trance. "I just got the date wrong."

She doesn't respond, so he keeps watching her. Soon, she begins breathing becomes heavier and a little unsteady, and she slowly moves forward, toward the painting. "Did you -" she finally sighs, choking on her own words. "Did you really buy this _for_ me? You didn't just…." She draws a shaky breath, and he guesses that she's fighting off tears, although he can't see her face anymore. "Just decide to give it to me after the fact?"

His soft laugh is kind and patient. "You know me, Pepper. I think you can guess how I really feel about this painting."

When she gives no response to that, makes no sound at all, he gets just a little nervous. He had expected her to be smiling by now. He hesitates for a moment, then slowly closes the space between them. He places a hand on her shoulder, barely touching her, and whispers, "Pepper?"

Slowly, she turns, and when she lifts her eyes to him, there are a few tear tracks running down her cheeks. She sighs, closes her eyes, closes the space between them with a half step and wraps her arms around his neck. She squeezes tightly, and it's as if she's trying to mold her body into his.

She catches him so off guard that he stands there dumbly for a moment, and hesitates when he finally realizes that he needs to move. His arms circle her back just as strongly, and he can feel each uneven, shaky breath she takes. He's not entirely sure what's going on, but he's mostly sure it's a good thing, and he knows he likes it.

"I could send it back of you don't want it," he jokes quietly, thrilled by the way she feels against him, the way her hair smells.

"_Shut up_," she whispers fiercely, tightening her arms until her grip is close to painful.

He obeys, and just holds her, enjoying the feeling of closeness and intimacy for as long as she'll let him. She doesn't let go for several minutes, and when she finally pulls back, she still isn't smiling. But that's fine - he can see her happiness, so much of it that it overwhelms her and drives her to tears instead.

"I don't understand," she murmurs, looking up at him. "Why did you get me this? Why did you give it to me?"

Well, that he knows very well. The question makes him a little nervous, because he's not quite ready to tell her the true reason, the deeper and more fundamental cause behind his actions. But the simple answer will do. He tilts his head with a smile, and brings his hands up to cup her cheeks. "Because, Pepper," he explains, brushing the tears from her face with his thumbs, "I knew it would make you happy. And I like it when you're happy."

She pulls away from the arms still draped around her waist, and turns back to the painting. She stares and stares for another minute, lost in thought. Finally, she turns back to him, a tiny smile gracing her lips, and absolute, heartfelt elation filling her eyes. He returns the smile, and feels as if her happiness radiates out from her and seeps into him as well, filling his heart and every other inch of him, and making him feel more incredible than he has in a long time.

When he bought the painting, he did it for the reward of this smile, though he didn't know why he craved it so much. He knows now. He's known since a particularly lonely, sleepless night, trapped in a cave.

Knowing _why_ just makes this feeling that much more incredible.

She spends a lot more time working in her office after that. Or rather, he assumes she's working - it seems as though every time he passes by her open door, she's staring at the painting, deeply lost in thought. He never interrupts.


End file.
